


Prey

by calrissian18



Series: Mating Games: Round 2 [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Compliant, M/M, Post Nogitsune, Rough Sex, Wolfed Out Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles survives in the aftermath.  It takes Peter to start <i>living</i> in it.</p><p>Written for mating_games Challenge 2: The Beast Within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prey

**Author's Note:**

> A tad bit longer than the entered version. It was hard to let any of this story go, what can I say? And, yes, Peter's character still terrifies me. I hope I hid that better than the last time I tried this pair.
> 
> If I can ever get up the nerve to write Peter again, I might add to this since I like to think the title applies to both the flagship characters equally. (And I don't think I've proved that yet!)

There’s something off in the Stilinski boy’s scent.  It’s reminiscent of asphalt that’s been baking too long in the sun.

It’s not the first time he’s shown up to a Pack meeting since the death of the little hunter girl—the death that left Peter grinning so wide his fangs snick-snacked against each other.  This is just like every other.  He can’t sit still, though it’s clear the effort is there even if it’s not being heeded.  He’s uncomfortable in his own skin and Peter almost fancies he can  _see_  it crawl.

He stands next to the wall of grated windows in Derek’s half-finished loft and crosses his arms over his chest, wrapping large hands and spidery fingers almost desperately over the balls of his shoulders, as if he’s physically trying to hold himself together.

He’s entertaining, like an art installation camouflaged in everyday life, but—even so—Peter would normally never pay him much mind.  Only, tonight, Stiles’ gaze keeps flashing over his way before skittering away.

He still has that look of prey he’d had from the moment Peter first laid eyes on him.  Wide, Bambi eyes that announced his innocence and his weakness in the same expression.  It had never been a lack of strength with this one though.  His weakness was one of self—of being seen as not good enough.  It was why his answer to Peter’s proposal had been a lie.

He hadn’t wanted to be a werewolf, but he had wanted to belong in a way that couldn’t be questioned.

Now his doe eyes don’t just say weak, don’t just say prey, now they promise an easy victory.

He doesn’t shuffle out, shoulders hunched, eyes trained on sneakers, as soon as Derek’s finished with them.  This time, he lingers, watches Derek follow Scott out.  Scott, who still doesn’t want him, doesn’t think of them as anything other than the same species, but who can no longer keep his head above water.  His best friend is unrecognizable, his first girlfriend dead.

Peter’s expecting a conversation about the Ctrl+Z equivalent to that particular state of being any day now.

Perhaps that’s what’s behind Stiles’ slow exit.  Somehow, Peter doesn’t think he can focus on anything past his own unraveling, at least for the moment.

He swallows and it’s loud in the void between them.  Peter doubts he even needed the preternatural senses to hear him do it.  He doesn’t pick his feet up any longer when he walks as if he’s actively trying to sink into the ground beneath him.

Peter grabs his arm as he moves to pass.  He won’t be dancing around it for another week while Stiles gets his courage, ire, nerve up.  Whatever it is he thinks he needs to broach this.

He turns into it instantly as though the movement not only hasn’t taken him by surprise, but he’d been anticipating it.

Peter’s eyes flash blue and it’s a weakness, a sign of his own caught off guard state.

The change in color sends a thrill down Stiles’ spine and Peter’s close enough that he can feel the physical echo of it.  His eyes are downcast, long lashes guarding his expression.  “I know what it meant now.”  He looks up, moon-pale and cracked around the edges.  “ _It_  knew.”  He pulls back his plaid overshirt, exposes his wrist.

It had been instinct in that garage that led Peter to make the offer, instinct that pulled tender skin to the stretch of his jaws.  He’d told himself it was a way of making Scott fall in, another tie secured—like Melissa would have been, but none of that explained the  _where_.

It looked as if Stiles had been telling himself the same thing.  “You offered it to me but forced it on Scott, Lydia.  You bit them on their sides but me, you would’ve taken my wrist.”

Peter feels the shift drain out of him and smirks, lips curving smoothly.

Rage contorts Stiles’ features and then he’s reaching up before Peter can stop him, digging blunt nails into the bare curve of his neck and Peter snarls, roars, challenged wolf in every cell of him.

Stiles’ eyes spark, relief and arousal pooling warmly in his relaxed limbs and Peter knows what he wants.

He digs his claws into the small of Stiles’ back, lifts him with nails that tear into skin and presses him back against a wall of brick.  Stiles wants to be hurt, thinks he  _deserves_  to be hurt.  The only pleasure he can bear laced with pain and he knows Peter will give it to him.  Is perhaps the only one who will.

Stiles licks into his mouth, tongue bathing his fangs, nicking himself purposefully.  He won’t let the wolf draw back, even when Peter mangles his mouth.  He keeps his nails dug in while he spreads his thighs around Peter’s hips.  He wants to be fucked, wants to stare into the eyes of a monster and writhe in pain while taking his pleasure.

Peter’s only so happy to oblige.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/). Because that's where I live now, lost and confused but surrounded by pretty boys without shirts.


End file.
